Fearful of the Night
by Dreamer of Improbable Dreams
Summary: A strange disease is spreading like a wildfire over the world and killing everyone in its path. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson must both flee from civilization to survive.
1. Safe and Sound

It started a month ago over in South America. At first it was just a disease that spread like wildfire through the suburbs of the greater cities. Then a few days after its discovery, some of the more disturbing symptoms kicked in. There were reports of people who lost their minds and souls after infection. It was easily quieted down.

Then the first death reports came and the whole continent panicked. In a matter of days the streets were filled to the bursting point with dead, rotting bodies and the barely-alive limping around in search of the healthy. Seven days after the first reported death, Paraguay closed its borders. Then Peru followed, and the rest of South America. The States barricaded the borders.

At first the internet had been full with cries of help from the other side of the closed doors, but as time went by the voices faded and almost disappeared.

The American people rose to their governments, ordering them to open the borders for a single day so as to save the last of the survivors; they could not bear to watch them die.

So on the 22nd of April the borders to Mexico were opened and a couple of thousand people crossed into uninfected land. They were thoroughly checked for not carrying the disease and let in.

But the disease had found away. Just as the official morning day of the millions of deceased kicked in, the disease was found to have survived.

In a matter of days the dead were piling up again, and this time borders was no boundary for the illness caused so much terror that people dared not give it any name. Asia was hit on the 2nd of May, Europe on the 4th and Australia and Africa both on the 6th.

The world could nothing to, and they watched in terror as the world was torn apart.

"John!" the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes called as he burst through the doors of his flatmates bedroom.

John was sitting on the bed with a book in his hands and he looked up puzzled as he was disturbed.

For a moment the newly arrived just stood in the doorway staring at his friend in silence. He was holding tightly onto his phone.

"Mycroft's just called. It has reach Paris."

More silence as John tried to grasp the information he was given.

"But... how has it reached Europe? I though they closed all borders!" John tumbled out of bed and stood slightly baffled on the middle of the floor, ready to take action but unaware of which action he should take.

"Not soon enough apparently." Sherlock said in a low voice. He suddenly leaped away from the doorway and started to gather clothes from drawers and cupboards.

"Do you think they can stop it crossing the Canal?" John asked. In order to do something he started picking up the stuff Sherlock threw around and holding it all in his arms.

"The Atlantic didn't stop it; I see not why the canal should." Sherlock said as started throwing socks at him.

"Yes, of course." John said, not giving up on carrying everything. "Wait. Hold on! What are you doing?" he asked furiously, not understanding what Sherlock was doing in his underwear drawer.

"I am packing for you. Mycroft have arranged to get you to this nice, quiet little island up in the North that hasn't seen human life for the past couple of years. You'll be safe there."

"_I'll_ be safe?" John asked in vain.

"Yes. Indeed you will. You will stay there for a couple of months or so; until the mainland has gone quiet. "As sane as one can get in this mad world. I have it arranged." Sherlock pulled out a trunk and filled it with the stuff he'd gathered from around the room.

John stood quiet and stared at his flatmate. Sherlock refused to turn around and look at him as he suddenly found great interest in pulling out shoes and picking the ones that he would need. His refusal to turn to see his friend was too persistent to be coincidental.

John did not break eye contact with the back of Sherlock's head. He stared for a moment at the curls and wondered what would happen to him. He had yet to say what he would be doing about this inevitable threat.

"What about you?" John asked cautiously. His voice was soar and squeaking from worry.

"Me?" Sherlock asked as if his own safety had not yet crossed his mind.

"Yes, you. What will you do? You're coming with me, right?"

Sherlock turned to his friend and his eyes was struck by an unusual concern.

"I go with you. Of course." He said, but he hardly left time for John to feel relived before he added: "For a moment. Then I'll return to London."

"Sherlock, are you out of your mind?" hissed John. "You won't stand a chance in the middle of _London!" _

Sherlock sank his spit to buy his answer some time.

"No, I won't. But I have things to finish before I flee."

"And what might these things be, huh?" asked John feeling an unexpected rage rise inside him. "If you even dare suggest that a case is more important than your life, then I can assure you that the killer will find his own justice, just as everyone else!"

Sherlock had gone silent for a moment.

"No. It's not a case." He took a deep breath and looked into his flatmate's eyes. "I need to make sure everyone's safe."

John was shocked and unable to speak.

"Safe?" his weathered voice repeated.

"Yes. First you. I get you safe first, take you to Isle of Passio. Then after I have made sure that you can't be harmed, I will return to the city. I will ensure Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly, and then I will flee myself."

"You will join me on the Isle of Parto?" John asked.

"Passio. And no, I won't. Your life will be at stake in case I am a bearer of the disease when I am done here. I will not risk you."

John would have protested, but in that moment the display Sherlock's phone lid up in his hand. He looked down and read the text.

_Car's here. Take care. –MH_

"Your transport is here. I have already packed supplies for you. Mycroft's provided what we didn't have."

Sherlock had suddenly turned very practical. He no longer fiddled with John's stuff or made unnecessary movements of any kind. He picked up the rest of the stuff and dragged it down the stairs to the main room.

"Sherlock!"

The main room of the flat had a small pile of trunks and bags in the middle of the floor. Plates and vases lay smashed on the floor, obviously pushed down in Sherlock's search for supplies. On top of the pile of bags lay a handgun and a harpoon.

A man dressed as a London cabby stood silent by the door. Sherlock stared at him and silently waited for him to talk.

"Mycroft's send me. Nine from seven."

"Seven from five." returned Sherlock promptly.

The cabby started carrying the luggage down and Sherlock was about to follow him, as John lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Please, Sherlock. You need to come with me." he whispered. The taller man stared down at him, and he was sure that he saw a moment of weakness in his eyes. Then it was gone like figure of smoke that was brushed away by the wind and Sherlock tensed.

"I am taking you there, but I am not staying. You're safe. That's enough for me." He told him fiercely, trying to make it sound an order. "You will go now."

"No." The authority in his voice was one that could only be found in members of the army. He refused to be denied. "You are coming, and you are staying with me. Mrs. Hudson is with her family in Cardiff, and I don't doubt that both Molly and Lestrade can take care of themselves just fine."

He moved an inch closer to seem dominant, but the massive height difference between them didn't help him. "You can't. You will get yourself in unnecessary danger. It is better that you take to the Isle of Pasas with me now."

"Passio." Sherlock corrected him. "But I won't have that. I am staying. You need not worry..."

"NO!" John found himself shouting and wondered if they could be heard by the flat inhabitants beneath them. Then he realised he didn't bloody care.

"You go with me!"

"I can't, John!" Sherlock sneered.

"You have to. I won't go if you don't go with me."

John could see in Sherlock's eyes that he felt defeated. The determined exterior melted away, and he could see how Sherlock never really wanted to leave John. He may want to stay, but not as much as he wanted his friend to go. And John was not late to take advantage of this. He couldn't withhold a slight smirk.

"Are you coming with me?" he asked, more tenderly this time.

"Yes." Sherlock said in an airy voice. His long, elegant hand reach up and caressed John's face, lightly stroking his cheeks and twirling his fingers around his hair. "But only for you."

John found himself short of words, but also found that he needed no words. He leaned closer to his friend and traced his jaw line with the soft tip of his finger. Some part of his brain pointed out to him, that the two of them had never been this physically close, but it didn't seem to matter to him.

He knew Sherlock and he knew himself. He knew the world was dying.

The two of them were going to the Island, but both he and Sherlock knew that they were unlikely to survive it. Neither the Atlantic, nor the Canal had stopped anything, and though the island may be their best chance it wasn't a good one.

They looked at each other so dangerously close and both of them knew that a dying world called for action. It demanded that every feeling, every impulse was acted upon, for else it would all too suddenly perish.

John thought and in the very moment he realised that, he rose to his toes and brought the two of them so achingly close.

John could feel Sherlock's heavy warm breath and soon he devoured the last distance between them and kissed his lips. He felt Sherlock's warm lips and skin and his hands that gripped tighter around him. Their lips departed as the kiss deepened, and John could suddenly feel the hunger in Sherlock's movement, the starved sensation that was their physical contact.

John lost track of time for a moment and could not tell how long had passed, when Sherlock broke their kiss momentarily to whisper something in his ear.

"Goodbye, John." He said, and John felt a sudden, stinging pain in his neck.

He stumbled away from Sherlock in confusion and fumbled with the small and sharp object his friend had stung into his neck. He pulled it lose and stared at the needle.

He looked in shock at Sherlock, and could already feel the dizziness rush upon him.

"I am sorry. I need to keep you safe." Sherlock told him in a voice that almost dared to quiver.

Then the drug overpowered John, and he fell to the floor, as large spots of black covered his sight.


	2. Hell is on its way

When John regained consciousness again he was lying in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed. A firm and angry wind howled at the night outside, and rain smashed down on the roof. At first he couldn't remember anything, but then it all came back suddenly.

"Sherlock." He moaned as he clumsily tried to get up. He came to stand on his feet and then realized he was no longer in his flat. Hell, he was no longer in London.

He was in a small room with tapestry of a faded blue colour. The air smelled of sea and tasted of dust. His luggage lay in an untidy pile in the centre of the room. There was a desk and a bed, and two of the walls were lined completely with cupboards. One of them gaped open and reviled its content, which was mostly canned food, candles and warm clothes. Leaning up the wall was the two metres long harpoon.

The small weather-beaten hub seemed to consist of only two other rooms: a kitchen and some pathetic excuse for a bathroom. The kitchen was stacked with yet more canned food.

Through the dirty windows the pouring rain allowed him to see no more than a few meters of stone-covered, barren land.

Returning to the room he had woken up in, John discovered a pile of documents lying on the bed. He had been too confused a moment ago to even notice them.

A flicker of hope sprang to life inside him as he thought that it might be some explanation letter from Sherlock. Going through the pile, it didn't seem it though.

The papers were mostly instructions. Some talked of how to work the turbine that was apparently located in a stream on this small and deserted island. Some told him how to achieve a varied diet on only canned food. Many talked about how to avoid airborne diseases and a few even briefly discussed the subject of killing people effectively with a 6 foot harpoon.

John was getting anxious going through the pile of papers without finding a single one addressed personally to him. He had not yet come to terms with the fact that the man he adored had first deceivingly kissed him in order to violently drug him and then dumped him on some god-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. And then Sherlock hadn't even written anything. A letter, a post-it note, anything!

John sat down on the bed and wondered what he was going to do now. He couldn't stay; that was for certain.

His head hurt so he lay down and as he put his head on the pillow he heard the unmistakable noise of paper. He rushed up and reached under the pillow and pulled out an envelope. On it was written his name in Sherlock's elegant handwriting. He opened it with shaking fingers.

_John,_

_I apologize for my traitorous behaviour, but I had to keep you safe. I hope you will have trust in me when I say it was not enjoyable for me. _

_I know what you're planning, but I strongly advise you to stay on the island. I am not in danger, and there is no need for you to run around playing hero. I promise I will find shelter as soon as possible. _

_I beg that you will remain here until the termination of the thread .I doubt it will last any longer than a couple of weeks with the power and swiftness with which it is spreading. Nevertheless, I advise you to stay as long as your stash of food allows you._

_Take care, my Doctor._

_Sherlock._

John anxiously turned the paper to see if it was continued, but this was all there was.

Leaving the letter on the bed he got up and went to stare out the window. The rain had slowly starting to settle down, and he wondered how long he's been unconscious. Had it been a couple of hours or for a full 24 hours?

He also wondered if Sherlock really would be safe. He didn't really have a history of self-caring if you though back to the many times he'd skipped eating or sleeping for days in his desperation to solve a case. Then again, he was certainly not foolish, and he had firmly _promised _not to get in any danger.

The third thing John thought of was how fast he could get of this island.

* * *

"How is he?" Mycroft asked interested as he put his spoon down and took a sip of his tea. He and his brother were sitting in Mycroft's office. The place was only lid by the fireplace, by which they were sitting in comfortable chairs made of leather and neat little pillows.

"Who?" Sherlock asked and pulled his eyes from the fire that cackled lightly.

"You know who." His brother told him seriously.

"John's fine. He's at the island of Passio. Far from anyone who might get the disease." He told him and took a large sip of his tea in order to avoid the concerned look his brother sent him.

"And I assume that you're aware of the fact that he'll probably return anyway?" Mycroft added. "He has grown very fond of you."

"I haven't left a boat on the island." Sherlock said and sighed. "He'll have to make himself a raft to get off, and by the time he's done with that it'll be too late."

Mycroft opened his mouth to add something to, but Sherlock changed the subject before he could draw in his breath.

"What will you do? I assume you'll be leaving London."

"Yes. I'll be going to the mansion in Wales." Mycroft said. "It has a very lovely defence system. Walls. All the way around."

Sherlock eyes returned to the fire that licked and caressed the wood like some devouring lover.

"So you believe there will be a fight? You believe the things they say? The things they say about the dead bodies?"

Mycroft put down his empty tea cup on the table and poured himself some more.

"I know it, Sherlock. I have just seen footage they sent us from Hong Kong. The hungry bodies are rising turning on the living. It's a nightmare out there, and that nightmare is approaching home disturbingly swiftly. "

Sherlock sank his spit as he realised just how much more dangerous the thread just got.

"What do you plan on doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in a voice that indicated he was afraid Sherlock would stay behind to observe the disease make its entry in London.

"I am going to stay here for the night. I have ensured Mrs. Hudson's safety, but I have yet to get Hooper her needed stock of food. She is staying in the locked mouge until the thread is terminated. I have yet to take care of Lestrade, though I have warned him. He is probably packing this moment..."

Mycroft interrupted his brother with greatest caution.

"Inspector Lestrade's safety," he said slowly. He seemed to fiddle with the words before he continued. "has been taken care of. He is going with me to Wales in 30 minutes."

A deep silence fell over the room. The two brothers stared at each other with equally unreadable eyes.

"Don't pretend you didn't know." Mycroft snapped.

"I won't." Sherlock assured him.

They turned their gazes from one another and instead stared into the flames together. The sun outside was starting to set and the flickering orange light was gradually growing more distinctive.

"When will you leave?" asked Mycroft in a soft voice, breaking the silence.

"Tomorrow."

"I will not force you to anything, but you better be out of this doomed city by sunset tomorrow." Mycroft told him. "Soon order turns to chaos."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded knowingly with an absentminded gaze into nothing. "When will they air the news?"

Mycroft made a glance at his watch.

"15 minutes." He told him. "Which means I've got to leave now. Don't want to get caught up in the traffic."

He got up and took his coat off a hook on the wall by the door out. He had already reached out to pull the door knob and walk out as he stopped himself. He turned and looked at his brother.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he said.

"Goodbye, Mycroft." was the answer. The younger Holmes turned and they shared a long moment of a silent farewell.

"Take care." The older said. "I will see you again when all this is over."

"Indeed you will."

Then Mycroft left the room and left his brother alone.

Sherlock sat motionless for 12 minutes after which he got up and turned on the television to watch the news airing.

The media made it sound as if the news of the disease's arrival in Paris was just in and not hours old. They advised people to keep calm and carry on as if nothing was happening. The news reporter went as far as reassuring the people of Britain that the disease had no chance of crossing the Canal.

Sherlock could easily tell he was lying.


	3. Author's Note

I have abandoned , but will continue posting on my new archiveofourown account. This story may be updated there in the near future. The account name is Enigma.


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